


Yeah, I Don't Really Wanna be Here

by ThroneofMist



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: DISCONTINUED FOR NOW I MIGHT PICK IT UP LATER IN THE FUTURE WHO KNOWS, George is irritated 24/7 and lives off of caffeine, M/M, Sapnap is the guy in the chair, Use of Real Names, as always ill tag more later :), dream likes his poetry he is a soft boy, he just wants to work and this boy has come for an internship and won't leave him alone, spider-man au bb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27729742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroneofMist/pseuds/ThroneofMist
Summary: Clay's done a lot in his seventeen years of life.Completed three Star Wars marathons. Earned the title of valedictorian. Tried a hundred different pizza joints in the city.He can also crawl up walls. And stops crimes on a regular basis. Trying to balance being a crappy neighbourhood superhero and having a solid social standing in high school is fucking hard.aka the dt Spiderman au
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 221





	1. crappy green suede vans

Clay had done a lot in his seventeen years of life.

He’d completed three Star Wars marathons (okay, so he _had_ fallen asleep during the second one, halfway through Solo, because that film was shit and Sapnap’s couch was comfy, alright?).

Earned the title of valedictorian (he still wasn’t sure if the amount of ‘witty’ valedicktorian jokes he’d heard in the corridors was worth it).

Tried a hundred different pizza joints in the city (a hundred out of thirty-two thousand, but he was getting there – slowly but surely).

He could also crawl up walls. And got this weird fucking itch at the base of his skull, right below where his hair started curling, whenever danger was around. Clay guessed that sort of shit just happened after you got bit by a radioactive spider. But, honestly, it still came forth on the list of cool shit he’d done.

Maybe it would be bumped down to fifth if he ever figured out how to drive stick. Maybe then he could drive to school and he wouldn’t miss the subway for the third day in a week. And then Mr Miller could get off his dick for being late to physics. Clay was pretty sure if he wasn’t getting the top marks in his class, Miller would’ve kicked him out the second week of junior year.

Clay tossed his backpack over his shoulder, grabbing his textbooks from his desk when the bell went, avoiding Mr Miller’s gaze by ducking behind a group of boys as they filed into the corridors. “ _Clay!_ ” The man shouted, craning his neck to scan the crowd of hormonal teenagers on their phones for the blond. He scowled when he couldn’t find the khaki hoodie and messy hair amongst the horde.

Clay let loose a relieved breath when the old bastard sat back down at his desk, muttering under his breath about how he could’ve been working at NASA as Clay slid out of the class. Holding his books under his arm, Clay mindlessly fiddled with his collar, making his way towards English. Swearing when he remembered he left his essay in his locker, he spun on his heels, booking it down the hall.

He weaved in and out of the crowd, crappy green vans squeaking against the linoleum floor. No one noticed that he didn’t bump into a single person. Clay barely noticed it himself anymore. It was surprisingly easy to fall into the life of a clandestine superhero if you just remembered to shove your suit in your sports bag. Specifically, under the Nike shorts that you never wore because they had been too short when your aunt had bought them for you when you were ten, let alone seventeen.

Roughly shoving his physics books into his locker, Clay grabbed his essay, biting down on it as he locked his locker, the metal door shutting with a satisfying click. Setting off towards English, Clay sighed when an arm found itself wrapped around his shoulder. But a grin danced its way onto his face when a crumpled up ten-dollar bill was waved in front of his face.

Clay snatched it out of Nick’s hand with a satisfied hum, making a show of sliding it into his pocket as his friend rolled his eyes. “How badly did it go?” he asked as they went to turn a corner, before Nick tugged on his sleeve, pulling him under the staircase.

“She said to come talk to her once I grow three inches,” Nick snorted, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall. Nick was Clay’s best friend, was his person. Had been for as long as he could remember. Since Nick was a scrappy kid, obsessed with video games and shooting nerf guns in his back garden, and he’d set his eyes on Clay in kindergarten, demanding they be best friends. A six-year-old Clay had just nodded, slightly too scared of the feral child to decline.

And here they were. Under the staircase as people walked above them, Clay stepping to the side before a stray piece of gum fell into his hair. Still best friends: even though Nick had abandoned the nerf guns for a skateboard, and spent more time listening to English rock bands than playing Minecraft with him anymore. But even though they had switched the dungarees and coloured socks for chains, ripped jeans and pretentious white headbands, (Nick) and oversized sweaters with the school’s mathletes logo embroidered on them (Clay), they were still each other’s people.

Clay knew literally every single thing about Nick, for better or worse. Knew how many shots of vodka it took for him to spill his guts out (about seven, if you were wondering). Knew how many girlfriends he’d had (five) and knew how many Nick had thought he’d been in love with (three) and knew how many Nick had actually been in love with (none). Knew his favourite ice cream flavour depended on his mood and the weather, knew he liked the Star Wars prequels best for some kind of masochistic reason. Knew he would ask for extra gherkins on his burger, even after he’d stolen the ones off of Clay’s. Knew Nick hated school more than he let on, and knew his friend was absolutely shitting it for the future.

Clay knew literally every single thing about him. And Nick thought he knew everything about Clay. Apart from that one massive fucking thing. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to tell Nick. He wanted to tell Nick about it more than he wanted basically anything else. He just couldn’t. Not when he knew it would put his friend at risk.

Clay got kidnapped at least once every four months. Almost got killed every week. Got his leg snapped in half once – that had been super fun to explain to his Aunt. I fell had worked the first seven times he’d used it. He didn’t know how much longer he could get away with it.

He couldn’t put Nick through any of that. It was better this way. Better to lie and sneak and hide one of the biggest parts of your life from his brother. At least that’s what Clay repeated in his head every time Nick would talk about Spiderman, or Dream, as Nick had taken to calling him, with a childlike supressed glee.

_“The guy’s insane. I told you about that time I saw him, right?”_

_“This would be your eighth time telling me.”_

_“He swung right on by, from those fucking webs of his. I thought I was dreaming, seriously, man.”_

“You’ll get em next time, champ.” Clay grinned when Nick rolled his eyes, muttering _cringe_ under his breath even though his brown eyes softened slightly, crinkling in the corners.

“You coming to mine after school?” he asked, leaning back on the balls of his feet. Clay shook his head before he checked his phone, showing Nick the time. When his friend just shrugged (Nick never had been the type for being on time to class, or anything, really), Clay rolled his eyes, ducking out from under the stairs to climb up them, taking the steps two at a time.

He couldn’t be late to English. Not when he’d spent three hours on this fucking essay. He glared down at the crisp paper in his hand, his scrawled handwriting glinting back up at him. If this got less than 95%, he’d be having issues with Mrs Morten. He’d poured his whole soul into this paper. He could probably quote all of Sweet Bird of Youth with confidence from all the time he’d spent highlighting the thing.

Clay’s _thing_ wasn’t even English. It was science and math (and being awkwardly arrogant about the fact he knew he was good at science and math); everyone knew that. They dmed him for the chemistry homework, offered to pay for him to tutor them and clambered to sit beside him during tests. His thing might not have been English, but it was his secret thing. He stayed up till two skimming through Tolstoy, holding his phone torch above the pages so he wouldn’t wake up May. He would write crappy poems on his notes as he waited for the subway. He’d take out as many books as he could from the library, because it was easier than spending all his money on books from Amazon. Literature was his thing, deep down. 

Well, apart from the superhero thing. But anyone could do that if they’d also been bitten by an acidic fucking spider. That didn’t make Clay special, he had just been in the right place at the right time. Or wrong place, wrong time, depending on how you looked at it. And beating the shit out of criminals was more exhausting that reading in his bed. He didn’t get all sweaty when he read.

Nick’s voice pulled him out of his reverie, his friend catching up with him. “Why not?” he asked, walking backwards through the hall to make a point of pouting up at Clay. “I’ve got a 10% off for Uber Eats,” he sang, wriggling a slit eyebrow, as if that was persuasive in any way.

“I’ve got that intern thing,” Clay said, pausing when they came to his English class. Nick hummed before he shot Clay an apologetic look for forgetting. Clay just shook his head, blond hair falling in his face. Fuck, he really needed to get it cut. Especially because it got all ruffled in the suit, and it would take him hours of combing his fingers through it for it to sit nicely after swinging through the city.

“Right,” Nick nodded, hitting his knuckles off of his head. His headband was loose, and he crinkled his nose when Clay reached out to tighten it. “With the science place. The one in the big fuck off tower. The one with the stupid name.”

“With SMP, yes,” Clay nodded along, before he inched closer to the class.

“I’ll see you tomorrow though, right.” Nick said, brows lowered. And even though it was technically a question, Nick did not pose it in a way that made Clay think he had a choice. He grimaced, and before he could even answer Nick was punching his arm. “You promised, man. I don’t get it, it’s not like you’re unpopular. You’re on the fucking football team, dude. Don’t you like _have_ to go to parties?”

“Well, it’s not a legal obligation,” Clay frowned. Nick didn’t laugh, he just narrowed his eyes, folding his arms over his black hoodie, pizza stains decorating the hood. “Fine. Fucking whatever, I’ll come with you,” he sighed before he pushed past his friend, walking into the class. He had promised he’d go, but that was a week ago. And last week Clay had been sure he’d be able to find a reasonable excuse. He’d failed his past self. And his current self, because now he had to go to a house party with people in his year, people he didn’t especially like. People he especially didn’t like shitfaced.

“Love you, babe!” He heard Nick call before the chatter of the class swallowed up the words. He handed in his essay on the way to his seat, sliding it onto her desk. Yawning, he dropped into his seat, pulling out his tattered copy of Macbeth.

The hour went by quickly, as Clay copied down character studies of Scottish kings, chiming into the conversations going on around him here and there. Nick was right, he wasn’t unpopular. He talked to most people in his year, and while Nick would always be there with him, he didn’t have a specific group of friends he sat with every lunch or hang out with after school. There were just people he spoke to if he liked, people he tried to avoid if he didn’t, and people he saw more regularly than others.

“Niki, _please_.” Wilbur, one of the people Clay would count as a constant friend, was currently begging Niki to come to his party. Will had moved here a couple of years ago from England, and he’d slowly become one of the most well-liked people in the school. He’d actually asked Clay out like the second week he’d been here, leaning against his locker and grinning, asking if he’d ever been to Pizza Hut. (Stupid question, because everyone’s been to a fucking Pizza Hut, and bad pickup line, because Clay hated Pizza Hut. The place smelled like shit. And the crusts were too thick.)

He’d turned him down, but Will had still managed to wriggle his way into becoming one of Clay’s friends, nothing if not relentless. “Clay’s coming, right Clay?”

He blinked when he realised Will and Niki were both watching him now, turned in their seats to face him. “Yeah,” he nodded, leaving out the part about how it was begrudgingly. Will threw Niki that wide grin he always had on his face, the one that seemed too perfect to be casual. Niki just rolled her eyes, snorting before she turned back to her notes.

Will opened his mouth to no doubt protest more, when the bell rang, cutting him off before he had the chance. Clay was up instantly, snatching his book and notes from his desk before he started legging it out the room. “See you tomorrow, mate,” he heard Will call, followed by Niki’s soft laugh, but he only had time to throw a quick salute in their direction before he was gone.

He only had twenty minutes to get to his internship. And the building was more than twenty minutes away. He shouldered open one of the side doors, stumbling out into the street. The familiar smell of smoke and crappy hot dogs welcomed him, as he sprinted, constantly muttering excuse me just in case.

As he ran, feet pounding against the sidewalk, he pulled out his crappy earphones and attached them to his phone. He was in a rush, but he always had time for Paramore. He liked the way the music would cut out everything else, the harsh hum of the city blocked out through the guitar, the screeching of cars hushed by familiar strums.

Clay hummed along to Hard Times as he squeezed through the sea of people, ducking down below a woman carrying a stack of moving boxes. He vaulted over a line of bins when he came up to a slow-moving line, leaping over each one. He grinned when the skyscraper he’d drooled over on Google Images finally appeared in the distance, the SMP logo standing bright against the grey bricks.

He was almost there when a shout cut through his music. Head snapping to the side, Clay watched as people ran away from a bank on the other side of the road, terror painting their faces. He pulled one earphone out, catching the words _gun_ and _hostages_ and _holy shit, I just needed a loan for my mortgage._

Well, fuck. He looked from the SMP building back to the bank, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk as people shoved past him to get away. Groaning, Clay raked his hands through his hair in desperation before he turned on his heels, skidding into a nearby lane. After checking to see if he was alone, Clay started tugging his shirt off over his head as he searched through his bag for his suit.

He was always terrified of someone walking in on him whenever he had to do this. Less so because of the fact they’d know who he was, but because he really fucking hated his chest. Too many fucking freckles.

But no one came into the lane, too focused on the situation happening at the bank on the other side of the street. Clay slid into his green and white suit, zipping it up quickly. He needed to upgrade it soon, and some of the shooters were running out of web. He’d have to break into the science labs at school to remake it.

He tugged his hood up after he’d gotten changed, abandoning his bag behind one of the dumpsters. Someone fucking better not take it, he had his laptop in there. Had to save up a whole goddamn year for it. And the R2D2 sticker on it had been discontinued. So, he’d be pretty pissed if someone got away with that.

It was only when he leapt out into the now slightly less busy road did he remember he still had one of his fucking earphones in. And he must’ve accidentally stuck his playlist on loop, because the same Paramore song was just on repeat in his left ear. He better not get shot right now, it would completely ruin the song.

He ignored the gasps as he pressed down on his right palm, his shooter sending a thin strand of webbing towards the bank. He tugged, and let himself fly through the air, landing on the roof. People down below pointed up at him, hands covering their mouths in shock or their phones filming him. He stuck up finger guns, before realising that was probably insensitive to the current situation, and just got on with it.

He dropped down against the skylight, watching as two men paced the length of the room below. People were sat against the walls, clutching children and sobbing silently. The two men had handguns: one was holding it in meaty hands that looked like they hadn't had a good wash in a while, the other had it strapped to his tacky belt. It looked like they were waiting for something. Clay didn’t have time to wait and see what.

Still humming along to the song playing in his ear, he brought his foot up to kick in the skylight, glass shattering to the room below. The two men looked up, but Clay was already on the floor by the time they realised, crouching down casually.

“Hey,” he said, cocking his head up at them. He didn’t move, even as the two of them aimed their guns at his head. They were stocky, sure, and had those scary beards criminals always seem to have, but they didn’t seem _that_ strong. Clay guessed you didn’t need to be that physically able when you had a weapon that could kill with the movement of a finger. Fucking cop out.

“Look guys, I’ve got some place to be so I’d really appreciate it if we could all just-” Clay leapt out of the way of a shot, flipping backwards, and landing on his feet with a sigh. “Or not,” he muttered, before the two of them both started firing instantly. The window behind him splintered as he ducked instinctively. “This glass bill is going to be insane,” he whistled as he avoided the bullets easily, trying his best to stay away from the civilians, who had all clambered into one corner of the room, huddled together.

“Let’s stay away from the windows, shall we fellas?” he asked as he used his webbing to glide around the room, making his way to the ceiling, so he was right on top of one of them. He brought his leg down, heels connecting with the guy’s skull. He slumped to the floor, unconscious. The other asshole’s face bleached of colour as Clay rolled away, shrugging as the guy looked from his friend to him. Then he shot at him, and another window broke.

“Oh, come on,” Clay sighed, shaking his head before he drove a punch into the guy’s face. “What did we just say, man?”

He kicked the gun out of the guy’s hand, and it went sliding across the marble floor. There was a pause, and the song in Clay’s ear started up again, in tune with the sirens now blaring outside. The guy moved quickly, hands outstretched for the gun, but not quick enough. Clay crawled forward, reaching the gun before the guy, and shattering it under his foot.

“Better luck next time, buddy,” he laughed before he shot his webbing out and twirled his wrists. The guy struggled against the webbing that now acted as a rope tied around him, but he only stumbled on his feet, landing on the floor with a grunt. Well, that was fast work. Another crime stopped, another day of justice served. At least this time the bullet hadn't hit him. He glanced over his arms, just in case. Yep, not a graze.

Clay looked outside, wincing at the broken glass, before everyone in the room slowly stood up. They laughed in disbelief, holding onto one another, running their hands over themselves as if they weren’t really alive. And then they started speaking to him. He cringed under his mask, nodding as they gripped onto him, praising him and thanking him.

“Really, it’s no problem,” he said before they could all pull him into a group hug (which a family had done once when Clay had stopped a truck from hitting into their car) and awkwardly stepped back, aiming his shooter to the smashed in skylight. “Follow me on Twitter,” he added before he leapt back up to the roof.

He managed to get his way back to the alley without anyone seeing him, gasping for air when he tugged the hood off his face. God, he really needed to figure out a way to breathe better in that thing. He got changed as quickly as he could, burying his suit back in his bag before he tried to flatten his sticking up hair.

He left the lane, backpack on his shoulder (laptop and R2D2 sticker safe) and tried to appear as casual as he could. He watched with a face of mild interest as the cops set up tape around the bank, people outside murmuring about Spider-man with his green and white suit. Clay just kept walking, picking the pace up to a slight jog until he made it to the SMP building.

His hair was slightly damp with sweat as he entered the revolving door, and he self-consciously started raking his hands through it. He found himself in a large, elegant lobby, walking until he was in the middle of it, looking up with parted lips at the massive glass chandelier above him. The place looked like a fancy Apple store, with uncomfortable looking cuboid sofas and coffee tables made of concrete. People in suits and people in lab coats milled about, the soft whisper of ringing phones and hushed conversations filling the air. 

“You’re Clay Parker?”

He blinked, looking around for who had said that, until his eyes fell on a short guy standing near him. He was holding an expensive looking tablet, fingers swiping across the screen, face a cast of bored indifference. The guy wasn’t looking at him, but as Clay glanced around, no one else was close enough to have spoken. Neat brown hair flopped in the guy’s face, and it was only when he looked up at Clay, did he realise how pretty the guy’s eyes were. Actually, how pretty the guy was.

He couldn't have been that much older than Clay was himself, but he held himself differently. He was wearing a casual suit, the kind teachers who live off of Cheetos and coffee wear to teach. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and he wasn't wearing a tie. But he was wearing a neat blazer and pants that looked more expensive than any piece of clothing Clay owned. He awkwardly looked down at his own outfit. Jeans. At least his shoes matched the colour of his sweater. That had to count for something, right?

Clay nodded wordlessly, unable to choke any words out as he shut his gaping mouth. The cute guy narrowed his eyes at him, flicking them up and down as he scanned Clay, who shifted awkwardly on his feet, hands shoved into his pockets. Even though he had to be at least seven inches taller than this guy (who Clay was pretty sure was English, judging by the accent) he felt incredibly small, especially when the guy levelled an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

“You’re late.”


	2. peppers and olives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> made your whole year in a week too, yeah

So, the cute guy’s name was George.

And Clay was getting the feeling George didn’t like him very much.

Mainly because he kept looking down at his green shoes with a barely restrained scowl.

“So, you’ll be working with me, I guess,” George sighed as Clay trailed after him, hands twitching in his pockets.

“You guess?” he repeated, arching a brow down at the shorter boy. George frowned, face so deadpan and unamused Clay almost wished he’d never applied for this internship. “How’d you know I was Clay Parker?” he asked as he followed George into an elevator, watching as a long, pale finger hit floor forty-three, the light blinking up at Clay. God, he didn’t even know elevators could smell this nice. Like posh lilies and cinnamon.

“Your file had your picture on it,” George replied, voice still bored.

“Am I better looking in real life?” Clay grinned, balancing on the heels of his shoes. George blinked up at him, left eye twitching slightly before he muttered something like, _Jesus fucking Christ, this guy’s worse than the last_.

“Sheesh, tough crowd,” Clay sighed, biting on his bottom lip before George snapped his head towards him.

“Look kid, I’d rather you weren’t here, okay?” Fuck. Talk about brutal honesty. Also, _kid?_ The fuck was up with that? “I’d rather not have to babysit a teenager than do my own work, which I now have to do in my own free time, because of you. I’d appreciate it if you just kept to yourself for the next three months and I’ll write you a nice little reference at the end of it for your uni or whatever the fuck it is you’re doing after this.”

Clay had to bite down a laugh at the guy’s accent (come on, he said uni like hughknee) before he nodded sardonically. George sighed, but he seemed satisfied by the lack of Clay’s voice and turned back to the iPad in his tiny hands. He reckoned they were like half the size of his own, all slender and pale and shit. There was this statue at the MET, of a Roman Emperor, and Clay had spent ten minutes just staring at the thing the last time Wilbur had dragged him along. George’s hands reminded him of that statue.

Clay tried to glance over George’s shoulder, but he was swiping through too fast for him to properly make anything out. “What if I have a question?” Clay asked when the elevator doors slid open, George walking forward without hesitation. “What?” George frowned, tilting his head up at Clay. Like a cat.

“If I have a question. What do I do? Do I ask you?”

“Yes,” George choked out through gritted teeth. Oh, this was going to be fun. Clay’s amusement was more than enough to make up for the barely supressed urge to strangle Clay written all over George’s pretty face. “If you have a question, you can ask me.”

“How old are you?” George paused in his tracks, lips parting in surprise before he turned to face Clay properly.

“I- _what_?” he stuttered, clutching the tablet close to his chest. Clay shrugged; hands still slouched in his jean pockets.

“I asked how old you are.”

“Yeah, I got that. _Why_?”

“You can’t be that much older than me. You don’t even look like you’d get served at a bar.” George made a sort of strangled sound at that, before he stormed off down the hall, leaving Clay to run after him. “Am I wrong?”

“I’m eighteen,” George said, refusing to look up at Clay until they came to a glass door. He peered in, lips parting in awe at the labs that sprawled through the corridor. People in lab coats milled around, holding beakers full of green shit and biting down on pens as they talked to each other. Holy shit, it was beautiful.

“And the legal age of drinking in England is sixteen.” Clay looked down as George pushed open the door, even though the other boy was still refusing to make eye contact. He grinned, wild beam on his face as George walked past him, elbow brushing against his. “Americans’ are a bunch of fucking cowards.”

George didn’t hold the door open for him, but Clay was still smiling when the glass door smashed into his face.

*

The next four hours went by fairly quickly, with Clay trailing George around the labs as he noted down data the scientists told him and trying to keep his input to a minimum. He may like the way George’s nose crinkled up whenever he spoke, but he liked the internship more.

The department he had been placed in, was in specialised in biomedical engineering and while Clay only really understood like half of what was going on around him, that didn’t stop the elevation he felt in his chest. He leaned in to glance up at the screens, eyes scanning the data as it was charted, repressing his glee as he continuously raked his fingers through his hair.

“So, I’ll see you next Friday then,” Clay said as George led him back to the elevator. The other man just hummed in agreement, pressing the button without looking up from his iPad. “Need me to do anything in preparation?”

George looked up at that, blue eyes meeting green as he raised a brow. “Why would I need you to prepare anything?” Clay shrugged, leaning his hands into his jean pockets as the elevator doors flew open with a sharp ding.

“Just, I don’t know…” George shook his head before he sighed. He had speckles of brown in his eyes. Clay wondered if he knew. “Do your homework or some shit, kid. I’ll set you up with one of these unlucky fuckers next week. They can take you off my hands.”

Clay stuck his foot out so the door couldn’t shut. George widened his eyes at him, and Clay didn’t miss the hint of a smile that threatened to tug up onto his lips. “Next Friday then,” he confirmed, hands snaking through blond hair. Jesus, he really needed to wash his hair.

“Yep. You can go now,” George nodded, frowning down at the foot still wedged in-between the door. Clay snorted when he kicked at it, polished black shoes pressing against his crappy Vans.

“Next Friday, George,” Clay smiled, throwing him that special wide, toothy grin he normally kept reserved for May when he needed her to order something off of Amazon for him that was extortionately expensive. George just frowned harder, the bit in between his eyebrows creasing. “It’s a date,” he added just as the doors slid shut, locking them away from each other. Clay didn’t miss the disgruntled sigh from the other side before the elevator lurched downwards, and he didn’t know if it was because of his powers or if it was because George had a really loud fucking sigh.

The latter option was funnier, so Clay went with that. He hummed as he walked out of the elevator, cracking his knuckles in the same rhythm. He pulled out his earphones (a wire had started peeking through the crappily-made white casing, fuck he’d need to fix that) and shuffled through his playlist until The Weekend blasted into his ears.

He threw his backpack (a red Kanken, one of the expensive Amazon purchases) over his shoulder and weaved his way in and out of the lobby. He slid into the revolving door, fingers tapping the golden bar as he bopped his head from left to right. And then, just as he was about to be greeted by the fresh air (well, as fresh as NYC air can possibly get), the hair on the back of his neck stood up, like someone had just breathed hot air against his skin.

His eyes snapped to the side, gut clenching with nausea when his eyes fell on a kid about his age on the other side of the door. The harmony of Starboy seemed to fade as bile rose up in his throat, a sense of anxiety sending Clay off kilter as he kept going around in the door. His fingers tensed around the bar when the boy turned his head, dark eyes meeting Clay’s.

The kid smiled awkwardly, the tips of his lips quirking into a casual greeting before he turned again, walking from the door and into the lobby. Clay’s anxiety settled as he walked away, but it didn’t completely leave.

Practically stumbling out of the door, Clay let loose a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. He didn’t even realise his phone was ringing until someone bumped into him, shouting to look where he was going and about how these damn kids always on their fucking iPhones these days. Breathing shaky, Clay blinked down at the phone in his hand, his aunt’s face grinning back up at him.

“Hi May,” he said into his earphone mic, glancing over his shoulder back into the lobby. The guy had disappeared into the sea of people inside, and Clay could barely make anything out through the distorted glass windows.

“You’re on your way back now, right?” His Aunt’s voice was tinny through the phone.

“Yeah,” he replied, his feet starting to move as people squeezed past him. It was dark now, the manufactured orange light from above sending neon shadows dancing along freckled skin. “Yeah, I’m heading home.

“What do you want on your pizza?” she asked as Clay bit his lip so harshly he felt metallic blood drip down his tongue.

“Huh?” He rubbed at his head, still feeling sick and dizzy from the encounter. This shit had never happened before. There was normally a reason for the weird sense he got (he’d named it his spider-sense, because if he was anything it wasn’t creative), it didn’t just normally go off because of some guy.

“Pizza toppings. What’s with you, Clay?” He pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes, shaking his head out in an attempt to subside the sickness pooling in his gut.

“Sorry, just tired. Been a long day,” he muttered. It technically wasn’t a lie. It had felt long, from physics class to being berated by Sap to saving a bank to meeting cute English guys. To whatever it is that just fucking happened. “Peppers, please. And olives.”

“Alright, peppers and olives for my psychopath of a nephew,” May snorted into the phone as Clay instinctively dodged the oncoming onslaught of foot traffic. “It should arrive just as you do.”

“Ten bucks says I beat it.”

“Oh, you’re on.”

As May hung up, his music returned to his ears, and a wide grin painted his face. He licked his top lip before kicking off of the sidewalk littered with old gum and cigarette butts.

He made it before the pizza, with six minutes to spare and a crisp ten dollar bill shoved into the back of his jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one's short, still just setting the scene :) next chapter party time
> 
> thank you so much for all the lovely comments on the last chapter, the support for this has already been insane! :D

**Author's Note:**

> hallo! so this is probably going to be a chaptered story because I have ideas but I'm currently trying to finish another dt fic so if you wanna subscribe or bookmark this story so you can come back to it when I have a better and more consistent update schedule that would be pog 
> 
> thanks so much for reading, kudos and comments make me :)


End file.
